Never Ending Battle
by Sweetdeath04
Summary: AU! Lisbon thought that Jane was finished, that he had given up on life. To be fair, Jane thought the same thing. But when a murder that was ruled a suicide is found, Jane realises he's not quite finished with the CBI - if only Lisbon will have him.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist or anything related to it.

**Summary: **_Lisbon thought that Jane was finished. That he'd done what he came to the CBI to do and now he had given up on life. To be fair, Jane thought the same thing. But when an old detective dies, leaving behind an unofficial case - a murder that was originally ruled to be a suicide - Jane realises that he's not quite done with the CBI just yet... If only Lisbon will have him..._

**A.N. **_Wow! What a season finale! I'm unbelievably glad it's been renewed for another season though there's no way I can wait until September, so here I am, chipping in my two cents. This will eventually be a multi-chapter fic that of course will be made redundant when the new season starts but I hope it will help tide some of you over until then. Enjoy!_

_**Never-Ending Battle**_

**Prologue**

"I'll call you back."

Those were the last words he had said before he hung up on her and as she dropped the hand clutching the phone from her ear, Lisbon knew that something bad was about to happen. He was using _that_ voice, after all. It was intense, serious. It was the one he only used when he spoke of something important. And what could be more important to Patrick Jane than Red John?

She felt nauseous and swallowed down the acidic bile that was rising in her throat with a whimper. She had spoken to Red John. She had made a telephone call to the man who had killed Jane's wife and daughter, the man who had orchestrated the deaths of Sam Bosco and his team... and the man that Craig O'Laughlin worked for. It almost seemed absurd. And she knew, she just _knew_, that he was in the vicinity of Patrick Jane. She didn't know how and she didn't know why. All she did know was that one of them was going to die.

Lisbon closed her eyes in an effort to keep the panic at bay. She took a breath, filling her lungs, then another. Gripping the fireplace where she sat with her right arm she tried to push herself to her feet. A mistake, as it happens. The nausea returned with a wave of dizziness and she collapsed back down, banging her head on the stone behind her. Her eyes filled with tears of utter frustration that she held back. Jane was in danger, from himself or a serial killer, she wasn't sure. But he was in trouble and she was too damn weak to even stand.

"Boss!" Grace rushed to her side, hands fluttering, trying to figure out what to do. She went to put pressure on Lisbon's wound but Lisbon brushed her hand aside. She knew she should let her but the bullet wasn't a through-and-through. It had certainly broken her collarbone but while she was losing blood, it could have been a lot worse. It could have hit a couple of inches down.

"The ambulance will be here in about ten minutes," Van Pelt informed her. "So will the local law enforcement. Cho and Rigsby are on their way..." she hesitated, and Lisbon felt a hand on her back. "Lisbon, you need to let me put some pressure on that," she gestured at the ever-growing spot of red on her shirt. "You're losing too much blood."

Lisbon wanted to tell her that she'd had worse, that'd she'd be fine, but she knew Van Pelt was right. So instead she gritted her teeth, closed her eyes and gave the younger agent a sharp nod. The hand at her back pushed harder to support her... and then the wave of pain when Grace pushed her other hand on the wound hit her.

The pain, the worry for Jane and the worry for Grace combined together and forced her to let out a strangled sob. She felt herself collapsing back against the stone fireplace but the pain didn't subside. After a few moments she was able to breathe through it and open her eyes again. On the balcony above her she saw Madeleine looking down, concerned. Lisbon forced a smile at her and watched her retreat back into the bedroom to her children. Suddenly she was glad that she hadn't told Grace that she'd had worse. Whilst the statement was most certainly true, it always hurt to get shot.

She turned towards the other agent and watched her for a moment. To the casual observer it would have looked like she was fully concentrating on keeping pressure on Lisbon's collarbone but every few seconds she would send a furtive glance towards the dead body beside them.

"Grace," she caught the other woman's attention, "I am so sorry that it turned out to be O'Laughlin."

Van Pelt let out a laugh that sounded more like a cry, "I should be apologising to you. I brought him here. He could have killed Hightower if you hadn't acted when you did. He nearly killed you! And it's my fault..." This time she did cry and her arms shook as they tried to stop Lisbon's blood from flowing out of her. Lisbon bit down on her lip, determined not to show that it was hurting her all the more. Awkwardly she crossed her right hand over her body so that it rested on Grace's knee.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "It wasn't fair on you." She tried to wait until Grace had control of her tears again, but her vision was growing hazy as the pain and blood loss began to overcome her. She asked the next question as Grace's sobs began to quiet, "Will you be okay? Eventually?" Because there was no point asking if she was okay _now_. Not when it was so obvious that she wasn't. And tomorrow would be worse, Lisbon had no doubt. Grace may be sitting and staring at the corpse of her fiancée but the truth and the consequences of the day's events hadn't quite hit her yet.

Grace offered her a watery smile, "I don't know. I hope so." Lisbon hoped so too.

They sat in silence.

Lisbon could hear the sirens when _it_ happened. Van Pelt's phone rang insistently and she removed the supporting hand at Lisbon's back to answer it and press it between her shoulder and her ear. Lisbon watched and listened, trying to figure out the caller's news. She was sure that Van Pelt could feel her heart racing and she suddenly found access to a final spurt of adrenaline that cleared her vision.

When Grace finally put away the phone her face was shocked, saddened and grim.

"What? Is it Jane?" For a moment she struggled to breathe in her panic.

"He's..." Grace looked at a loss at what to say. "He's been arrested." Lisbon swallowed thickly and Grace carried on. "Cho said he's killed someone and he keeps saying it was Red John..."

Everything else was a blur. Later, she would vaguely remember the paramedics lifting her onto a stretcher, a flash of red hair as Van Pelt talked to the local police and Madeleine giving her hand a quick squeeze as she was loaded into the back of the ambulance.

The doors were slammed shut, breaking off her connection with the outside world. It was only then that she closed her eyes and broke off her own connection with consciousness.

**A.N. **_I promise I will try and write more soon. Also, the real chapters will be longer. Some Jane next time too! Please let me know what you think, even if you just want to leave a comment on the season finale. _

_**~Sweetdeath04**_


	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist or anything related to it.

**A.N. **_Sorry for taking so long to update – I've had to knuckle down and do some work for exams and job interviews. I hope this is worth the wait and I promise I'll be quicker with the next update! Enjoy!_

**Chapter One**

Patrick Jane did not resist when the Sacramento Police Department Officers closed the cuffs around his wrists, nor did he resist when he was led out to the squad car and pushed into the back seat. He only spoke once, to confirm that he was indeed Patrick Jane, in infamous CBI consultant. It was at that point that he felt he should add, "And _that_," he nodded at the dead body only feet away, "is Red John." At the confused and disbelieving look a couple of officers gave him he pointed out, "You know? The _serial killer_." The officers just looked between each other and Jane decided that talking wasn't worth the effort. His words would be lost on these people.

So instead he sat back in the squad car and revelled in his victory. Except, he didn't feel particularly victorious. But he would, he decided, as soon as the reality of what he had done settled in.

He followed the roads the squad car took and was pleased to see he was being taken straight to the CBI rather than some anonymous police station. He let his mind wander to the other members of the Serious Crimes Unit. They would possibly be disappointed with him, with his actions. Cho at least, he expected, would understand. The others, he would have to see before he could read. It had turned out quite well for them, overall, he mused. Yes, Grace's fiancée was now dead but once she got over him and she was able to comprehend that he wasn't the man she thought he was she would finally realise that she had just been settling for second best. Rigsby would be given another chance and all would be well.

Lisbon...

Jane had been completely calm since he had lay down his gun on the table but at the thought of Lisbon he felt a sense of unease growing in his gut. He truly hoped she was okay. She had sounded perfectly coherent when she had been talking to him over the phone and following his instructions, though the pain in her voice was obvious. He could assume the wound wasn't life threatening if it was treated properly but he couldn't be sure if the bullet had caused any lasting damage. It would be just like Lisbon to shrug off something serious. He felt his heart rate speeding and he fought to calm his breathing. She could be paralysed from the waist down for all he knew. He considered asking one of the officers driving him if they had heard anything about her, but he knew by the time they learnt anything he would already be at the CBI, where someone was bound to give him a more detailed report.

Twice, in a matter of days, the wellbeing of Teresa Lisbon had managed to terrify him. _This _was why he had tried to keep her out of this Red John business. He couldn't focus if he was too busy worrying about her.

She was going to be so disappointed in him.

He tried not to think about it.

* * *

><p>Cho and Rigsby stood in the Viewing Room that adjoined with the Interrogation Room that Jane had been placed in. Neither Agent was entirely sure what they should do. Patrick Jane was their colleague, their friend. It was unnerving to see him in handcuffs for anything more serious than a parlour trick. The door opened and they looked up to see Gale Bertram join them. Cho met the CBI Director's stare with one of his own but Rigsby looked away sheepishly. It was never a good thing to basically accuse your boss of being a mole in his own organisation.<p>

"Has he said anything yet?" Bertram asked Cho, seemingly putting aside the previous suspicion he was under.

"According to the Sac P.D. cops, he's claiming that the man he shot is Red John." Cho informed the Director. "He just asked about Agent Lisbon's condition when he was brought in. Hasn't said anything else."

Bertram nodded, "How is Lisbon? LaRoche said she'd been taken to Kaiser Foundation Hospital."

"I called," Rigsby injected. "They said she was stable and about to be taken into surgery. They told me to call back in two or three hours- she should be out again by then."

"Good." Bertram approached the window and stared straight out at Jane before turning back to Cho. "Jane's victim," the words sounded wrong in all their ears, "has been IDed as Vincent Pride. Find out how he knows it was Red John." At Cho's nod of understanding he added, "Keep me updated. LaRoche and Van Pelt are bringing in Hightower. Until _that_ mess is cleared up you report to me."

He left before they could answer.

* * *

><p>"How's Lisbon?" The question assaulted Cho's ears the moment he stepped though the door into Interrogation.<p>

"You've been read your Miranda Rights?" Cho deflected. He was given a quick confirmation by Jane before the original question was repeated. "She's in surgery," he answered bluntly. Seeing that Jane was about bombard him with more questions on Lisbon's health, he added, "The doctor Rigsby talked to said she was stable. She should be okay."

Jane leaned back in his chair again, visibly more relieved. But Cho, in his trademark interrogation style, wasn't about to let him relax just yet.

"What the hell were you thinking?" It seemed as good a question to start with as any and it was perfectly valid.

Jane looked at him incredulously. Then the look turned patronising. Cho wondered how Lisbon put up with it. "He was Red John. I couldn't just let him walk away!"

Privately, Cho agreed, but he couldn't tell him that. "Let's start with how you knew he was Red John."

It wasn't a question and he didn't get an answer. "So he _was _Red John!" The blond man said triumphantly, almost as if he had been waiting for confirmation.

Cho wouldn't- couldn't give it to him. "We only have your word on that. So how did you know?"

And so the story began. Of Lisbon and the telephone call. Of the man at the table- hearing the words of the man sitting only feet away from him echoing through the phone. Of the question that was asked and the response that was given, _"I have many names. Some people call me _Red John_."_

It was there in the recount of what had occurred that Jane fell silent and Cho knew there was no way he was going to learn the intimate details of _that _particular conversation. Lisbon might have been able to drag it out of the consultant, but she wasn't there and even if she was there was no assurance that Jane would tell her any more than he would tell Cho.

Still, he had to ask, "But how did you know it wasn't one of his lackeys he had sent on some sort of suicide mission?"

Cho would never forget the look he saw in Jane's eyes there and then. It was the look of a haunted man who had been wronged and violated in the worst ways possible.

"He told me how they _smelled_ when he killed them."

Jane's voice was raw, like it had happened only moments ago. There was no need to ask who _they_ were. Even if he had, Cho wouldn't have gotten an answer. Jane was done talking. It didn't matter what questions Cho asked, Jane sat in complete silence.

* * *

><p>Rigsby was watching the now very one way conversation between Cho and Jane when the door to the Observation Room opened and a tired and dishevelled Van Pelt walked in.<p>

"Hey," he said softly, as to not block out the sound of Cho's questions filtering through from the other room. "How are you holding up?"

Grace nodded as she answered, "I'm okay, for now anyway." Rigsby eyed her warily in the darkness of the room. Her eyes were dry and there was none of the telltale redness of crying. Whether that was a good sign or not, he wasn't entirely sure. "What have I missed?" she asked.

Rigsby filled her in on Jane's misdemeanour with Red John and a gun, leaving nothing out. He saw her shudder when he told her how Jane had known that Vincent Pride really was the serial killer they had hunted for years. He resisted the urge to reach out for her, to hold her. Instead, he asked, "How was Lisbon when the paramedics took her? Does she know about Jane?"

Van Pelt's answer was wary, "I told her, but I'm not sure if she heard me." That worried Rigsby and he wasn't too proud to admit it. Van Pelt continued, "She was a bit out of it by then." Rigsby didn't comment, but he wouldn't have been surprised if it was the news that Jane had killed a man that had left their bosses mind in such a state.

The two watched the interrogation in silence, until it was obvious that Cho wasn't going to learn anything else from Jane. As they walked to the bullpen to begin their own search for evidence that Vincent Pride was Red John, Van Pelt spotted something that made her freeze on the spot. Through the open blinds of Lisbon's office she saw the clear dress cover hanging above the door and inside it, the pink bridesmaids dress.

Her knees buckled but her landing on the floor was softened by Rigsby's quick reflexes, catching her then lifting her to Jane's couch as her sobs broke through the quiet air.

**A.N. **_Poor Van Pelt. I hoped I made the character's believable- I find Lisbon the easiest to write out of all of them. So more of her in the next chapter! But I had to get the rest of the team in too! Please let me know what you thought of it!_

_**~Sweetdeath04**_


	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist or anything to do with it.

**A.N. **_Sorry this has taken so long again. I've been mentoring at Space School this week which may sound fun but is utterly exhausting. Thanks for all your comments and here's the next chapter. Enjoy!_

**Chapter Two**

When Lisbon awoke she didn't move, other than opening her eyes. For a moment she wondered if she had indeed opened them as her world remained dark but as her eyes adjusted she realised it was night time and the lights were off. Slowly she began to move, assessing the damage. She ached all over from lying in the uncomfortable hospital bed but other than that she was numb and her left arm was immobilised. She had been in the same position enough times before to know better than the tug at the annoying tubes up her nose.

She tried to remember the events that led up to her stay in this room. Jane informing her that O'Laughlin was the mole, O'Laughlin besting her in a shoot-off, Hightower and Van Pelt shooting and killing O'Laughlin.

Grace must feel like she's in hell, Lisbon thought.

Jane had called her and she had spoken to Red John. She shivered under the blankets on her bed at the thought. Then Jane had said he'd call her back.

He'd call her back.

The heart monitor that she was wired up to jumped up a notch, beeping rapidly as her right hand shot out to the bedside table at her side, her neck straining to see what was there. The first thing her fingers wrapped around was her necklace and she gripped it tightly before laying in on her chest. Finally her hand grasped around the flat, rectangular shape of her phone.

Her hand was shaking as she struggled to turn it on. Letting the software load she waited, her eyes fixed on the screen, watching the clock- one minute changing to the next, and the next, and the next. After five minutes had passed she closed her eyes tightly and dropped her phone, fingers once again clinging to her cross.

No missed calls.

She couldn't trust her memory- it was too hazy. But she was sure she remembered Van Pelt answering a phone and telling her...

Telling her what?

That Jane killed a man. That he killed Red John.

God damn him! He had planned this! What was worse was that she _knew_ he had planned it! And she had done _nothing_! She should have gone to the mall with Van Pelt and sent Cho and Rigsby to guard Hightower. She should have kept an eye on Jane at all times and she shouldn't have let O'Laughlin anywhere near Hightower until the entire situation was resolved, even if she did believe he was in the clear at the time. She had let her fondness for Grace cloud her judgement in that regard. And as for Jane... she should never have let herself be conned into the idea of letting him have free rein over one of his plans, even if it _was _the only feasible way of catching Red John.

She hadn't believed it would work. Apparently it had, as all Jane's plans did. And it had ended in death for one side of the bloody war Red John had started and it would end in prison for the other.

At that moment in time, Teresa felt entirely alone. There was no one she could call to give her reassurance or advice. There was no one to give her a hug and tell her it would be all right. Normally she shied away from such behaviour but right now she craved it.

Instead, she uncomfortably pushed herself onto her right side and brought her legs up to her chest. Still clutching her cross, she was thankful for the darkness for she was able to hide her tears even from herself.

* * *

><p>It was at the moment his boss drifted into sleep once again that Wayne Rigsby pulled away from Grace Van Pelt's apartment building. He felt he had handled to situation admirably. After Grace's meltdown inside the CBI offices he had placed her on Jane's couch and wrapped her in his jacket. He ached to hold her, to offer some sort of comfort, but he knew that could end up making the situation worse. Instead, he settled for simply holding her hand as she cried.<p>

Once she was composed enough to walk, he immediately took her home. He found himself walking round the once familiar flat, grabbing blankets, cushions and making camomile tea. Once she was settled on the couch where he could keep an eye on her, he began digging through her wedding material. He had figured that if Lisbon had been getting her dress picked up then so must the other bridesmaids and Charlotte Breener, Grace's maid of honour. And _that_ was whose number he was searching for.

He doubted Grace would want him about, especially after his confession only a week ago. Her family was too far away to provide any immediate help so instead he figured that Grace's best girl friend would be the best person for the job. Rigsby was in luck; Charlotte – who preferred, Charlie, was still in town and arrived at Grace's apartment less than an hour later. She had, of course, heard about his previous relationship with Grace (apparently these women told each other everything) and whole heartedly agreed that he was not someone Grace should see right now.

Van Pelt was in shock, that much was obvious. She had shot her fiancée and quite possibly been the one who had fired the kill shot. And he, Wayne Rigsby, had not, under any circumstance, wanted to watch her marry another man. But he hadn't wanted it to end like _this_. He just hope Grace understood that.

And so, with Grace in Charlie's capable hands, he began to drive back towards the CBI. It had been a long two days and they were about to get even longer.

* * *

><p>The second time Teresa woke up after surgery there was someone in the room with her. Two someone's, in fact. A nurse was changing the drip in her arm and a doctor was looking over her chart. He smiled at her when he noticed that she was awake.<p>

"Good morning, Teresa. How are you feeling?"

She considered the question briefly. Honestly, she felt like crap. What she needed was some decent food and a very long, very hot shower. But first, she needed an update on her team and the Jane situation.

"Not bad," she answered, "considering there's a new hole in my shoulder." Whoever said that honesty was the best policy obviously never had even half as many stays in hospital as she had.

The doctor smiled at her humour. "That's good to hear. The surgery was fairly straightforward. I'm Doctor Schafer, by the way. Do you have any questions?"

Lisbon decided pretty quickly that she liked him. He was straight to the point. "When can I leave?" she asked, as the nurse helped her sit up in the bed, before leaving to tend to other patients.

He nodded, obviously expecting that question. "We want to keep you in today and tonight. You can leave tomorrow morning, once we've checked that you can change your bandages and look after your wound yourself. And, before you ask," he grinned wearily, "you can go back to desk work in two weeks; light field work in six and anything that involves high impact is eight weeks, unless your arm is giving you any pain."

"Thank you."

"A nurse will bring you your breakfast shortly," Schafer continued, "and we'll start you on the pill form of your pain medication then too. Now," he took a quick glance out the door to somewhere she couldn't see, "do you feel up for a visitor?"

Her heart rose into her throat. Maybe it was Cho, here to give her an update on the Jane situation. Or La Roche, to question her on her knowledge of his plans. Or... there was no sense getting worked up over it. Schafer was already frowning at the way her heart rate had raised in the moments since his question. "Sure," she managed, hoarsely. Unsure if he could even hear her, she nodded.

Schafer was still frowning, "Okay, but if you get tired, don't be afraid to tell him to get lost. You need some more rest." And, with that he left.

Lisbon rapidly scrubbed her face, desperate to make sure there were no telltale tear tracks left on her cheeks before her visitor was admitted. But when he _did _enter the room and carefully shut the door behind him, she felt a lump grow in her throat.

"Hey, Sir," she broke out into a smile, despite the lump. "How've you been?"

The withering glare she got in response from Virgil Minelli was enough, but he backed it up by opening his mouth and retorting, "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that? And I'm not your boss anymore, Teresa."

As she watched him drag a plastic chair to beside her bed she found herself wondering just how many times he had visited friends, relatives and colleagues in hospital. God knows, she had enough experience, but she had never quite managed to master the art of finding a comfortable position in those damn visitor's chairs. Minelli made it look simple, settling the chair about a meter away from the edge of the bed, slouching back in it as though it were as padded as the couch Jane had bought her and finally he put his feet on the bed, pushing her legs out of the way. As she watched, totally bemused, she forgot to sensor her sentences, saying, "Well, I'm not really sure _who_ my boss is anymore. Last I heard, Hightower was on the CBI's most wanted list and La Roche and Bertram were candidates for the title of Red John's mole." She rolled slightly to one side so she could speak to him more easily.

Minelli laughed at her blunt assessment of the situation, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Really, Teresa. How are you?"

She didn't answer for a moment. Instead, she looked him dead in the eyes, trying to assess what he knew. It was only after he prompted her to speak by calling her name again that she let her eyes drop to the floor. "I'd be a lot better if I knew what was going on," she spoke quietly.

"Would you?"

She hadn't expected that. Which meant things must be worse than she had previously thought. Although, she had come up with some truly horrific scenarios in her head the night before. Her head snapped up and she met his eyes determinedly. "I need to know, Virgil." Her voice was quiet but it conveyed the strength of her convictions. "I'm driving myself insane here. I've come up with dozens of ideas what could have happened. Please," her voice had dropped to a frantic whisper and she raised it again for her final plea, "please tell me something. Anything!"

"Yesterday afternoon, just after the shootout at Hightower's hideout, it seems, Jane shot and killed a man, Vincent Pride, after being convinced that he was Red John." Minelli recited off the line like it was just another report on any old case. "Cho and Rigsby have been working through the night and so far the evidence they have collected is pointing towards the conclusion that Jane was correct and that Red John is now dead."

Lisbon watched him as he spoke. His eyes darted across the room and refused to meet her own. There was more- more that he wasn't telling her. She didn't prompt him, instead she just waited it out with a glare.

Finally, he withered under her gaze, "If I had known what shit he was going to get himself into, I swear, Teresa, I _never_ would have helped him. Yes, I wanted that son-of-a-bitch caught and I certainly won't lose any sleep over the fact that he's dead but why did _Jane_ have to shoot him? And I'm a God-damned moron for not guessing what he'd do if he ever met Red John..."

But Teresa was no longer listening. For her, time had frozen when Minelli had confessed to helping Jane. She had no idea when or where or how and she wasn't sure she wanted to. She couldn't blame Minelli either- after all, hadn't she been the one to phone Red John at Jane's request? And she was still positive that the man who she had spoken to was indeed Red John. Which, naturally, must have led to Jane discovering the serial killer- and then killing him. So wasn't she, too, responsible for helping Jane achieve his overall goal. But she, unlike Minelli, had known of Jane's ambitions. He had _told_ her and given her fair warning.

In a way, they had all gotten caught in Jane's spider web, not just Red John.

**A.N. **_This chapter didn't turn out as I expected it to. Anyway, next chapter should be up soon (you don't believe me, do you?) and hopefully have be the last prelude-ish chapter before the real story starts! Let me know what you think!_

_**~Sweetdeath04**_


	4. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist or anything to do with it.

**A.N. **_Right! New chapter! Hopefully get a few revelations in this chapter! Thanks for all your kind reviews! Enjoy!_

**Chapter Three**

Andrew Sutton was in his final year studying Forensic Science and becoming more and more disillusioned with his chosen profession. It wasn't at all like it was shown on TV shows like CSI. For one thing, he thought, on TV they don't have to wear these ridiculous white suits which were stifling in the summer heat. Andy felt another bead of sweat run down his forehead and onto his nose. This was ridiculous.

He and several other of his classmates had been called in to assist the California Crime Scene Investigators in combing the house of a man who was suspected of being a serial killer. Andy had heard on the morning news that the man had been killed by a CBI consultant the previous day. The CSI's had been on their hands and knees, inspecting every inch of the house for hours and so far they were coming up blank. Damn cops, thought Andy, trying to cover their asses. The guy who owned this house probably hadn't even a parking ticket to his name.

His back ached from being hunched over on the carpet for too long. He sat up onto his knees, arching his back to stretch it and stared at the ceiling above him. Upon receiving a glare from one of his instructors, he hunched over again to look for clues.

Before rapidly turning his head skywards again.

Part of the ceiling was sagging. Calling out to one of his instructors, he pointed out the inconsistency in the otherwise immaculate house.

The carpet in the room directly above the sagging ceiling was hastily lifted and sure enough the cement had been freshly laid. Andy watched in suspense as the equipment for drilling through the flooring was brought up and used, creating a cloud of dust. Before it had cleared away, he and a qualified CSI were on their hands and knees, yet again, searching through the insulation beneath.

He felt a hearty pat on his shoulder as suits, much like their own, were revealed along with rubber gloves and other trinkets. Newspaper clipping, photographs and even a police file were revealed. But by far the strangest thing extracted from the mess was a blotchy Halloween mask.

Maybe this whole Forensic Science business wasn't so bad after all, he mused.

* * *

><p>The lull that had hit Lisbon and Minelli's conversation was broken when the nurse brought Lisbon's breakfast. This started a much more light hearted discussion between the two about the evils of hospital food which then continued to the numerous times they had both been subjected to it.<p>

Each had their share of war wounds- in fact, Minelli had first approached Lisbon about a position with the CBI when she was hospitalised for a bullet wound to the abdomen and another to the thigh. She had been working with SFPD at the time, under Sam Bosco. But the mention of that particular incident left Lisbon's smiles strained, though it didn't fade altogether. It didn't surprise him. He had heard about Bosco's team within SFPD and the relationship they shared which had other team officers turning green with envy and he hadn't honestly expected for his job offer to be accepted. But the day he had met young Teresa Lisbon, all was not well between her and her boss. He never found out what had fractured the relationship and, quite frankly, he didn't want to know. What Minelli _did _know was that it had not been repaired until many years later and was unfortunately followed by the premature death of Agent Bosco.

However they managed t stray back on to safer topics before Virgil was unceremoniously kicked out by a nurse with the express wish of changing Lisbon's dressing. He didn't mind- Teresa was looking considerably less distressed than she was when he had arrived so he bade her farewell with an awkward, one armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. Mission accomplished.

* * *

><p>The nurse, who insisted on being called Christina, was a motherly woman, Lisbon discovered as the older woman fussed over her. As she taught Teresa how to change the dressing herself, she also took the time to warn Lisbon that she had better not see her in the hospital because she had overexerted herself. Cops, Christina proclaimed, may be very good at protecting citizens from harm, but they generally caused more harm to themselves than enough simply because they didn't look after themselves.<p>

Lisbon couldn't honestly disagree.

Changing the dressing was easier than anticipated with only one available arm, but she was warned that it would be significantly harder when she wasn't being fed pain medication on a drip. Still, once she had been briefed on her medication and physiotherapy by Doctor Schafer and then redressed her shoulder to Christina's expectations without any help, she would be set free the next morning.

Lisbon also wrangled permission to use her mobile phone, "To check if someone could pick her up from the hospital," she insisted after Christina gave her a knowing look.

Cho's update was brief. Vincent Pride was almost without a doubt, Red John. This relieved Lisbon more than anything- if Jane _had _to kill someone, at least it wasn't an innocent man. But she wasn't the only one who was relieved- Cho's normally impassive voice was laced with the emotion when she informed him she would be released the next day and he insisted that he would be there at two o'clock to pick her up.

Lisbon had no intention of staying in that hospital room quite so long.

She slept well and listened attentively to Schafer's instructions the next day, swearing blind that she would follow them to the letter. She ate her breakfast and changed her dressing flawlessly before dressing carefully. In general, she acted like a perfect patient. Schafer discharged her with the instructions to come back in a week so he could inspect the wound. The she called a taxi and asked the driver to take her home.

This was all before eleven o'clock in the morning.

When she did reach her apartment the first thing she did was have a very long, very hot shower. It was then that she decided on her final course of action.

She was not going to go out of her way to find a loophole in the law for Jane to slip through. Neither was she going to condemn him to life imprisonment. She was simply going to treat him like any other criminal and since he had been caught and confessed to the crime that meant that she was free to ignore him. He was a big boy and no longer her responsibility. She had tried to convince him that revenge was not the answer and, while she had failed, it was not as if she had handed him the gun and pointed him in the right direction.

Well, she _had_ inadvertently helped him find Red John, but she hadn't told Jane to _shoot_ him!

She was not guilty. This was not her fault. She just hoped that feeling remained once she saw Jane in handcuffs and a prison suit.

Lisbon dressed herself, being forced to redress her shoulder after the shower. She even managed to make herself a meal with what little food she had that hadn't gone off in the few days she had been indisposed. Following her doctor's instructions to the letter, she downed her meds in one gulp.

Teresa Lisbon then proceeded to call a cab and smash every other precaution she had promised her doctor to take.

* * *

><p>Kimball Cho and Wayne Rigsby had <em>maybe<em> a full eight hours sleep between them since their boss had been carted off to hospital. They were running on caffeine, adrenaline and sheer willpower as they sifted through the bagged evidence that had been removed from Pride's house. What his body couldn't tell them, his collection could. Vincent Pride was a sick bastard. It was a fact and there was no disputing it.

What disturbed Cho the most was the newspaper clippings. Everything seemed to have been buried in the housing insulation in a precise order, the forensic guys had told him. They could tell what had been stored away most recently by the age of the cement on the floor. It created a timeline of sorts. But the clippings were threaded through the timeline, not only documenting his kills, his victims, but also the CBI Agents who had worked the case over the years. Naturally, Jane was the most prominent figure who appeared, but he was followed closely by Lisbon. He could follow the past eight, nearly nine years of his boss's career. And that meant that Red John had his eye on her _before _she had taken over the case.

Cho hoped it was the lack of sleep that fed his paranoia, but he couldn't help but fear that it had been a planned move, placing Teresa Lisbon at the head of the Serious Crimes Unit. He just hoped it wasn't planned by Red John.

He glanced at his watch before gulping down the last of his cold coffee and left the mug in the kitchen sink to be washed later. He ran the cold tap, splashing water on his face in an attempt to wake him up. It wouldn't do if he picked Lisbon up from the hospital, only to have her taken back there because he had fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed the car.

His voice was hoarse with disuse when he announced his departure to Rigsby. The two men were too tired to chat and the bigger man simply told him to give his best wishes to Lisbon. That was when they heard a low voice behind them announce, "You can give them to her yourself, Agent Rigsby."

La Roche's large stature made her look physically smaller than usual. It wasn't helped by her unusually pale skin and one arm dangling uselessly in a sling. But her back was straight as she strode across the room, in contrast to La Roche's smaller, more cautious steps. He was eyeing her closely, waiting to catch her should her strength fail her and she collapse.

Cho couldn't help but smile and it was mirrored by Rigsby. Teresa Lisbon may have taken a beating, but she wasn't down and out. The boss was back, and somehow, that made the situation look a little less bleak.

**A.N. **_Not entirely happy with this chapter, but it was necessary before the real action begins. Please let me know what you think!_

_**~Sweetdeath04**_


	5. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist or anything related to it.

**A.N. **_I think I'm going to stop trying to estimate when I'm going to update. It doesn't seem to be working. Anyway, I apologise for the long wait (hey, there's a fic I haven't updated in... oh dear, six years. That's a long time...) and I hope you all enjoy the chapter! _

**Chapter Four**

The following week was gruelling, to say the least, and Lisbon was quick to learn exactly why Doctor Schafer had been insistent that she took two weeks off work. Not that she paid any heed to his advice.

As soon as it was confirmed to no degree of doubt that Pride was, in fact, Red John, the Serious Crimes Unit was taken off the case. One would have thought that would have made things easier for the team, but instead it was only a prelude to a flood of interviews and questions by the prosecution attorneys. Jane's pre-trial date had been set for exactly two weeks after the killing, on Friday 3rd June, and it was there that both the prosecution and defence would duke it out for what information was admissible and inadmissible in the court room.

The shooting had occurred on Friday 20th May and Lisbon had been released from Kaiser Foundation and returned to the CBI on Sunday the 22nd. The next day, Hightower had been officially cleared from all involvement with the Todd Johnson murder and been temporarily reinstated as the Head of the CBI though she wouldn't be at work until she had made arrangements for her children to be looked after. La Roche had been quick to hand back the title to the aggrieved woman- so quick, in fact, that it made Lisbon wonder if he had ever wanted the job in the first place. He had then taken on the overseeing of the Red John versus Patrick Jane case.

It was nine o'clock on Tuesday morning when a prosecutor, by the name of Anthony O'Donnell, stalked into the bullpen, demanding to speak to the members of the SCU. Lisbon, who had insisted to a dubious Cho that she was fit for work and had subsequently been driven to the CBI, had dragged the poor man into her office and stated quite firmly that, in no uncertain terms, was he to inconvenience the members of her team and that his interviews were to be done at their leisure, not his. When he objected, she slammed her right hand down on the desk so hard that it jarred her injured shoulder painfully, then promised that they would co-operate to the best of their ability but that he was not to go knocking on Van Pelt's door.

Too much damage had been done to her team. They had all been hurt and betrayed. And Teresa Lisbon would be damned if she would allow any more harm to come to that girl without it going through her first.

Eventually, herself and O'Donnell reached an impasse. He could come and go as he pleased, so long as he didn't corner them at a crime scene, and he wouldn't talk to Van Pelt until Lisbon had cleared it with her but the interview had to be done before the pre-trial. To compensate the time lost, Lisbon agreed to hand over any files pertaining to Jane (including the numerous formal complaints made against him) and give him any information he required.

They shook hands and he wished her a speedy recovery. For all his talk of, 'time is of the essence,' she didn't see him again until Friday 27th.

* * *

><p>That week Lisbon formed a routine. She would wake up at six o'clock every morning, shower, change the dressing on her wound, dress and finally force herself to eat a substantial breakfast whilst trying not to gag on the painkillers the doctor has prescribed. Cho would pick her up on his way to work at half past seven and they would arrive in just before eight. With no cases pending, they would all start on paperwork from previous cases. At lunch she would resist taking more of her painkillers until the looks of concern she was getting from Cho and Rigsby (mainly Rigsby, Cho was as impassive as ever) wore her down, then she would return to her office where she would pretend to do paperwork until exhaustion and pain had her slumped over her desk, at which point she would try and relax on the oversized couch in her office. Each day would end with La Roche and Hightower insisting that it wasn't necessary for her to come in the next day before Cho drove her home.<p>

As much as she hated to admit it, she wasn't really fit for work. Which was why Friday was particularly taxing.

O'Donnell knocked on her office door about an hour after she had returned from lunch. The painkillers weren't doing their job, apart from making her woozy and pain was spreading right down her arm and up her neck like fire. She was honestly looking forward to a weekend in bed with nothing and no one to drag her out of it. But those plans would have to wait.

"Agent Lisbon," O'Donnell's voice broke her silence as the door opened. "Would now be a good time for you to answer a few questions?" It was posed as a question, but in reality it was a statement. O'Donnell was already pulling out a chair from the opposite side of her desk and lowering himself into it before she answered.

"I suppose now's as good a time as any," she answered, resigned to her fate thought inside her head she was uncharacteristically begging for a reprieve. She dropped her pen and ran her ink stained fingers through her hair in an attempt to waken up.

O'Donnell began by asking for her version of the events leading up to the shooting of Vincent Pride and she told them as impassively as she could. The bitterness she felt when she spoke on how Jane had hung up on her with a promise to call her that he had never fulfilled couldn't be heard in her words and she couldn't help but feel that Cho would be proud of her stoic composure.

Next, O'Donnell asked her if she was aware of Jane's time in a psychiatric hospital, to which she replied in the affirmative. This continued on to Jane's behaviour when a Red John case emerged.

"He changed," she began firmly. "He was willing to risk everything to catch Red John. He seemed..." she struggled to find the right words, "almost manic." She decided against telling some of his exploits in further detail (a dying man, a man she loved, whether she cared to admit it or not, and a morphine drip came to mind). But over the years it had become ingrained in her to defend him, at least a little. "You're a prosecution attorney," she looked O'Donnell right in the eye. "You've met people who have lost _everything_. Have any of them made you promise to get justice for their loved ones?"

She knew the answer before he gave it. "Yes, I have," he replied soberly. They all had. It was inevitable when you did what they did.

"You know that look in their eyes, when they beg you to promise?" Lisbon asked. She was answered by a short nod. "_That_ was the look in Jane's eyes when a Red John case came up."

Her description seemed to rattle O'Donnell and somehow that didn't surprise her. It was a look that every cop, every attorney and every doctor associated with trauma and death. And it was something Jane had been living with for over eight years.

The sat in silence for a moment before O'Donnell cleared his throat, "Just one more question, Agent Lisbon." Lisbon tried not to let out an audible sigh of relief. "Did Mr Jane ever infer or imply that he planned to kill Red John, once he was caught?"

Lisbon blinked and her breath caught in her throat. Her mouth opened to answer but her brain refused to inform her on what she was going to say. Her lips began to form the shape of a word.

Before she produced any sound she looked up, startled, as the door of her office nearly came off its hinges as it was flung open with more force than the designer had intended. Her reprieve had come in the surprising form of La Roche who was looking incredibly harried and somewhat menacing.

"I'm sorry, Mr O'Donnell, you'll have to continue this interview some other time. I'm in need of Agent Lisbon's assistance." His manner alone implied it was urgent.

O'Donnell pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, "We were just about done here anyway," he replied, shaking her hand courteously. "If you could let me know when it would be convenient to speak to Agent Van Pelt?" he directed the question towards her.

"You'll know by Monday," she nodded, also standing. Her body objected to the abrupt change in height and she gripped the desk to stay on her feet. Her eyes followed O'Donnell as he exited her office and crossed the bullpen. The moment he was out of sight she turned to La Roche. "What's happened?"

"Nothing that can't wait," he gestured for her to sit and she did so quite gratefully. "He had been in here for over an hour. I think I'm correct in saying that your doctor hasn't officially cleared you for work yet?"

She tried to glare but it wilted in her exhaustion.

"Agent Hightower is _my_ boss now, after all," he continued, "and I doubt she would be pleased if I worked you to death before she returned." He offered her a small smile as he left her office, reminding her just how manipulative and wily he could be when he wanted.

In that moment, Lisbon took back every bad word she had ever said about the man.

She sat back in her chair, too tired to try and make it to the couch. She didn't care that the door was open and that anyone passing could see her as she closed her eyes. O'Donnell's final question haunted her and she was still unsure how she would have answered if La Roche hadn't interrupted the interview in as timely a fashion as he had.

The obvious answer, and the honest answer, would have been 'yes'. Yes, Jane did indeed tell her that he planned to kill Red John. He had told her in excruciating detail exactly what he intended for the serial killers demise. And while it hadn't occurred exactly as he had inferred, Jane had carried out his overall goal.

And Lisbon _had_ promised herself that she would be honest.

She hadn't even begun to consider the alternative when another voice called from her door, "Well, if Little Lisbon ain't gone and got herself a big, shiny office all to herself."

Lisbon's eyes flew open and she sat straight up at lightning speed as her visitor leaned against the doorframe. She regarded him fondly and gestured for him to come in, "Long time no see, Connor," she smiled.

Detective Philip Connor took in her appearance, eyes finally resting on the bandages still viewable under the collar of her t-shirt and the sling her left arm rested in. "I hear you've had one helluva week, Lisbon."

**A.N. **_I hate creating new characters. I really do. There's a reason I don't keep 'em around for long. Anyway, new case in the next chapter and we'll find out how Jane's holding up. Special thanks go to my three wonderful reviews from the last chapter, in particular __**Ankhasia Riddle**__, who put up with my debate on wording! Please let me know what you think!_

_**~Sweetdeath04**_


	6. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: It ain't mine.

**A.N. **_I know, I know, another long wait. Sorry! I'm a bit worried I won't get this finished before the new season starts so I'm going to have to kick my writing into high gear! Enjoy the chapter!_

**Chapter Five**

Lisbon forced herself to her feet and made her way to the couch, beckoning Connor to sit with her whilst taking in his appearance. While the detective was only six, maybe seven years older than herself, he looked as though he had been run ragged. His hair, which she remembered being brown and curly, was now peppered with grey, shorter and thinner. The wrinkles around his eyes, she was sure, could not be attributed to laughter. She vaguely remembered seeing him at Sam Bosco's funeral the previous year and struggled to remember his condition then.

More than anything, she noted, Philip Connor looked sad.

"You don't look like you've had so hot a week yourself, Connor," she retorted, eyeing the file in his hand. "Want to tell me about it?" She grinned, self-depreciatively, "Might take my mind off my own problems."

He smiled wearily at her before his face settled into an expression that made her cringe. She knew _that_ expression far too well. It was the one she wore, that every cop wore, when they were about to break bad news to someone.

Maybe she didn't want to hear about Philip Connor's week after all.

* * *

><p>Jane had been placed in solitary confinement at the County Jail, despite how well he had handled the other inmates the last time he had been admitted. He didn't mind. He didn't particularly want to talk to anyone, and he certainly didn't care to put in the effort to hypnotise, dazzle or generally woo the other inmates around to his way of thinking.<p>

What was the point, in the end? He had completed his task. He didn't particularly care what came next.

Today, however, he was meeting his Court Appointed Lawyer, Justin Nolan, who would, no doubt, try and persuade him to change his plea from guilty to not guilty. He had already heard how Nolan intended to try and get the Premeditated Murder One charge, which could instil the death penalty, dropped all the way to the Self-Defence and Defence of Others, which, as Justifiable Homicide, would leave him a free man.

Personally, Jane thought that was a bit ambitious.

As if on cue a guard banged on the door of his cell and he rose in preparation of being taken to an interview room.

Nolan, it turned out, was exactly how he expected him to be. Young, tall and lanky. Weedy could be an adjective used to describe him. In short, he was a kid and he was nervous as hell to be in the room with a murderer, even one as amicable as Jane. Jane wondered ponderously if he had ever seen the inside of a courtroom, let alone won a trial.

"Mr Jane," Nolan rose, almost knocking his chair over in his haste and held out his hand, obviously meaning for Jane to shake it. Then, seeing Jane's hands shackled together he withdrew it, stuttering sounds rather than words.

They both sat and he began again, "Mr Jane, I hear that you intend to plead guilty. Is there anything I can say to change your mind?"

Jane shook his head cheerfully. "Not a thing."

"Very well then." The sigh wasn't audible, but it was obviously implied by the look on Nolan's face. His shoulders slumped, "I received your statement from the CBI. Let's go over it, shall we? Then we can work on your character witnesses, okay?"

This time Jane sighed. The guy was going to be optimistic to the bitter end.

* * *

><p>"Do you remember the first time we met?" Connor asked her delicately. He had dreaded asking the question and it was something they never, <em>ever<em> talked about. Most people assumed that Connor and Lisbon had met on her first day as SFPD when they had been introduced by her boss and his colleague, Sam Bosco. It was a misconception that neither dared correct.

Lisbon's smile suddenly became very fixed as she answered with another question. "Should I assume you mean when you were trying not to throw up in my garden?"

Connor let out a short, relieved laugh. "Yeah, yeah that was the day." It had been _his_ first day at SFPD rather than hers that they had met. Teresa had been a young slip of a thing at only fifteen years of age. She had returned home from school with James and Tommy, praying that their father would be sober enough to take them to the hospital to visit Michael. She had known within a moment of stepping inside the house that something was wrong but she had no way of anticipating the magnitude of it.

Inside, her father was slumped in an armchair, dead from an overdose of pills and alcohol.

She had sent her brothers outside to the garden before calling 911. That was when Philip Connor had arrived with Derek Sullivan, the senior detective. The scene hadn't been particularly gruesome- in fact, there had been no blood, no mangled flesh, not even any vomit. In fact, it was the lack of blood that had left Connor lightheaded. The sight of Arthur Lisbon in a position so atypical of any tired man was so different from what he had expected. He just looked like he was still alive, rather than dead.

Connor had ended up sitting on the step at the front of the house whilst Sullivan took pictures and made notes on the scene, wondering whether going into the police force had been a wise career move when he had been silently offered a bottle of water by young Teresa.

Even now, he thought about the look in her eyes when they had met his. If there was a mixture between despair and relief, he decided, that had been it. He had wondered why until he opened his eyes, figuratively speaking. As he accepted the bottle with thanks he first noticed the bruise on her wrist, not quite hidden by the sleeves of her sweater. He looked up and saw the tiny darkened patch on her lower lip where it had been split. But there were no cuts or darkened, healed patches of skin on her knuckles, so obviously she hadn't been fighting.

Finally, he took the three children in collectively. The older of the two boys had a healing, yellow and brown bruise across his left eye. The youngest child looked largely unscathed by the marks his brother and sister bore but he, like the other two, was dangerously thin. Connor knew there was a fourth child in the hospital and he didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what had put him there.

When these children weren't being neglected, they were being abused. And from the hint of relief he had witnessed in Teresa Lisbon's eyes, where by all right's there should be tears at her father's death, he knew in his heart that the dead man in the living room was their abuser.

And so, Philip Connor had continued his career as a police detective, working under Derek Sullivan for the next five years before being transferred from homicide to domestic abuse cases. Some would have called it a demotion but, the way Connor figured it, this way he got to help the living, rather than the dead.

"Do you remember the detective that was with me that day? Derek Sullivan? He died a couple of weeks ago- alcohol poisoning, would you believe?" He smiled, but there was no happiness or cheer in it. It was a bitter, rueful smile. "Few years back he retired from the Force, at least, that's the official story. In reality he was politely asked to leave after taking to the bottle. Complaints were made- he interviewed a victim's family while he was still drunk, or something like that. Anyway," Connor paused to get back on track. "He had no family and I was his closest friend, in the end. I was asked to clear out his apartment after he passed. That's where I found _this_." He handed over the file, but kept a hand placed on top of it to stop Lisbon from opening it straight away.

"Sullivan always said something didn't ring true about your father's suicide but he was never able to put a finger on _what_. He was told to drop the investigation after the coroner's ruling, but he always said that something was missing." Connor paused again. Lisbon was staring at the closed file in silence and he raised her chin with a finger so he could look her in they eye, in what could be perceived by an outsider as a romantic gesture, but the tension in the room would have quickly dissuaded them from that idea.

"Turns out, he kept investigating. And he found something- something that was so obvious it should never have been missed in the first place. Teresa-"

This time it was he who looked away. He ran a finger through his hair and bent over, resting his head on his knees so he was much in the same position as he had been when they had met all those years ago.

"Teresa, there's a chance your father didn't commit suicide. That he was murdered."

**A.N. **_Not got as much in here as I had hoped, but I intend to update by Wednesday. I figure I've got about six weeks until the new season starts so I better get by ass in gear and start writing. Let me know what you thought of this chapter!_

_**~Sweetdeath04**_


	7. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist or anything related to it.

**A.N. **_I know, I know, it's late! Blame my boss! I've finally been given part time employment that I'll be able to keep on while I'm at University but my hours have prevented me from writing. Sorry! Enjoy the new chapter!_

**Chapter Six**

Lisbon's weekend did not go as planned. Instead of a nice, relaxing weekend spent in bed catching up with her reading or curled up on the couch in front of the TV, she found herself actively pursuing activities to keep her mind and body active. Between cleaning her apartment and _finally_ unpacking those last few cardboard boxes she successfully managed to keep her mind from wandering onto the conversation between herself and Connor until dinnertime on the Saturday evening. Even then, she was much too tired to really consider the issue.

That night, however, all she did was toss and turn in her bed – as much as she could without hurting herself at any rate. Around a quarter to three in the morning she gave up on sleep, switched on her bedside light and retrieved the file from her bag. It was odd, she mused, that she now considered _this, The _File. Until a week ago, any file that she considered more noteworthy than any other would have been at least related to the Red John case.

She ignored the vast majority of the photos of the scene of her father's death however she did pull out a picture of multiple medicine bottles scattered over a table. She hadn't seen the scene for long enough to absorb the detail when she was fifteen but it was vaguely reminiscing of the scene she had displayed for Doctor Carmen over a year previously. Retrieving the toxicology report, she placed it beside the photo and ticked off each drug in her mind. The official cause of death was alcohol poisoning mixed with a drug overdose. The level of alcohol in his blood was enough to kill an elephant, let alone a mere human being.

This was what Detective Sullivan had highlighted in the file and she could immediately see why. There was no way that her father could have ingested the concentration of alcohol in his blood from the whiskey alone. From any amount of alcoholic drinks, in fact. He'd have passed out or thrown up long before he would have consumed the amount required.

He would have had to drink something like pure ethanol, or had it injected into him. The coroner hadn't found any puncture marks, but then, he hadn't been looking for them. And she knew there was no pure ethanol in the house.

She couldn't blame the coroner, or any other officer who had ruled the death as a suicide. _She _had assumed the same thing for years. She had thought- almost hoped- that her father had killed himself in his grief or guilt for what he had done to her and her brothers. Michael, in particular. Two evenings before her father's death she had come home late from track practice. The scene she had found that day haunted her far more than the one she had found a few days later.

He had been drunk. Again. Normally the boys would lock themselves in their room. But Tommy, being only seven years old at the time, had gone out to 'rescue' a toy, and had ended up being rescued himself by Michael.

By the time they had gotten him to the hospital, the ruptured spleen had nearly killed him.

Arthur Lisbon honestly hadn't believed it had been he who had so severely injured his son. But the look of fear he found in the eyes of his children, and his ripped knuckles told him a truth that he couldn't remember.

Teresa loved her father, she really did. But she was still able to sleep at night, believing her father had killed himself because of the guilt he carried. But the thought that someone had _murdered_ him...

That wasn't something she was able to live with.

Her mind was made up. First thing on Monday morning, Hightower would be back in charge. She would drop the file on her desk and let _her_ decide who investigated it. She wouldn't let it become her obsession. She didn't need that.

But so help the poor sod who she didn't think was doing enough to find out who killed her father.

* * *

><p>It was ten o'clock when she was called into Hightower's office- two hours after she had given her the file to review. It was odd, having Hightower as her boss again. Their relationship had traversed into the 'true friend' category and Lisbon wasn't sure how she felt about that. Sure, Minelli had basically been a father to her and their working relationship hadn't suffered for it. But Minelli never had to deal with a matter like that of her father's death.<p>

"Hey, Lisbon," Hightower waved her into the office. Photos were placed haphazardly on the desk but everything else remained in the cardboard boxes placed at the side of the desk. Lisbon sat opposite Hightower and struggled not to fidget as she waited for Hightower to find the file again. She had no reason to be so nervous and it wasn't doing much for the image of impassivity she was trying to maintain. "I read the file and spoke to Detective Connor earlier. It seems like it's definitely worth following up."

Lisbon was instantly relieved. Just to hear the confirmation that something would be done about it was enough. At least, it was until the file was handed back to her.

"Every team apart from yours has a case at the moment. I realised cold cases aren't really up the SCU's street, but I can't just drag another team away from what they're doing when your team's free. And I realise that there's going to be some travel expenses- take whatever you need. I'll make sure you're reimbursed."

"But-" Lisbon tried to protest, but wasn't sure if she wanted to, or even what she should say. "But, I _can't_ investigate this. Or be lead agent on it. The victim is _family_. No judge would-"

Hightower cut her off. "You're not supposed to be investigating _anything_, Agent Lisbon. You think I haven't spoken to your doctor? You're not even supposed to be here!" She paused and a small smile began to grow across her face. "But I don't think your team would object to a little guidance here and there, do you? Especially since you're a man down until Agent Van Pelt returns. After they've questioned you, that is."

Lisbon nearly flinched at that. Of _course_ they would have to question her. She was the first person to come upon the scene, therefore making her the prime suspect. Not only that, but she certainly had motive, at the time at least.

"Of course, Ma'am."

She was almost out the door when Hightower stopped her. "Teresa?"

She turned, "Yes?"

Gone was the 'Woman in Command' facade. In its place was the look of a concerned friend. "Are you going to be okay with this?"

Not _'Are_ you okay'. That would have just been stupid. Of _course_ she wasn't okay. She'd just learned that her father had been murdered!

"Yeah," Teresa replied, after a moment. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

* * *

><p>In the bullpen, the mood was tense. Lisbon hadn't said anything to them but they knew something was wrong. Rigsby hypothesised and Cho remained silent whilst he considered each one, rarely shooting them down. After all, they were valid worries.<p>

"Maybe something's wrong with Grace. You think she's not going to come back?" Rigsby asked.

Cho just shrugged. It was possible, after all. His bet was on Rigsby's next theory, however.

"The Boss could be worried about Jane. His pre-trial's this week."

Cho heard the door of Hightower's office open then close and the heard the footsteps that denoted someone coming towards them. "Guess we're about to find out," he murmured, just as Lisbon came into view.

She stopped in front of Cho's desk and dropped the file she was carrying on it. "You guys have a new case." There was something about her expression that Cho couldn't decipher. Slowly, he turned the file around and made to open it. He heard Rigsby shift and saw his shadow as he leaned over Cho's shoulder.

Cho opened the file. He stared for a moment at the picture on the first page. Then he looked back up, questioningly, at Lisbon.

"I'll be in interrogation when you're ready for me," she said as way of reply, before striding back down the hallway, head held high.

"Shit," Rigsby breathed softly. Cho concurred.

* * *

><p>They let him watch a little TV when the rest of the inmates were in their cells, safely locked away. Not that there was much on of interest. Mainly it was crime drama's that were nothing like real life, or shows about teenage college student's that he couldn't follow. He didn't find them that interesting anyway. It was just a list of who was sleeping with who, after all. So he flicked the channel onto the news. It was always a good idea to keep up with current events anyway. He wouldn't be kept in solitary confinement indefinitely- that much he knew. It might be a good plan to find out who his future cell mates might be.<p>

No new development's on any of the open cases, he lamented. The CBI just wasn't doing quite as well without him around to keep them all in line. He was drawn from his smug beliefs when he could have sworn he heard a name he recognised. Grabbing the TV remote, he turned the volume up until he could hear clearly.

"...recently come to light that Mr Lisbon may have been murdered. This is the first time any information about this Cold Case has been produced in over twenty years. One may question the wisdom, however, of the Senior Crimes Unit director, Madeleine Hightower, at handing this case to the SCU, which is lead by the victim's only daughter, Agent Teresa Lisbon. This comes only a week after CBI's consultant, Patrick Jane, murdered Vincent Pride once he was confirmed to be Red John, the serial killer responsible for the death of Mr Jane's family. In other news..."

Jane flicked the television off. It didn't make sense. _What_ new information? As far as he knew, Lisbon's father had killed himself when she was a teenager. And now they were saying he might have been murdered?

Poor Lisbon. She'd be questioned, of course. Though he knew she didn't do it. She had basically admitted as much to him several months ago. One of her brother's perhaps? They had motive, he knew that much. It would destroy her, he knew, if she had to arrest one of her brothers. They're relationship was tenuous enough as it was.

As he was led back to his cell, he lamented his situation for the first time since he had done the deed, so to speak. He wanted to know Lisbon was okay. That she wouldn't turn this into her personal torment, that she wouldn't turn out like him.

Was she even supposed to be working? He had seen the picture of her on the television, her arm still in a sling. She looked tired, but that was understandable. It had only been a week but he was sure she had lost weight. Or maybe that was just the camera.

He had been sleeping well since he was confined in his cell, all traces of the insomnia that had plagued him for years, gone. But tonight it returned as he fretted, tossing and turning. He made his decision around two o'clock in the morning. He would call his Justin Nolan, change his plea and hope, beyond hope, that he could turn this novice of a lawyer into a winning defence attorney before his trial.

He had promised to be there for Lisbon whenever she needed him, whether she liked it or not. Now was one of those times.

**A.N.**_You can tell I haven't studied Chemistry in years and have a very basic understanding of it, can't you. My understanding of it is if you drink too much 'pure' ethanol it will affect you nervous system and then your respiratory organs, causing death. If I'm wrong, let me know._

_I'll try and update soon, but it depends on work._

_**~Sweetdeath04**_


	8. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: Not mine. Which is probably for the better.

**A.N. **_Okay, it's been a _long_ time since I looked at this. I think it's safe to say that this is now most defiantly AU. Still, I hope you enjoying it nonetheless._

**Chapter Seven**

Rigsby entered the interrogation room less than ten minutes after Lisbon had settled herself there. He walked almost hunched over, as though he was trying to conceal his massive size and he refused to look her in the eyes. It was though he had regressed to the Agent who had come to the CBI six years previously- the affable Agent who shied away from the spotlight and watched Jane's tricks in awe from the background. The Rigsby from before Lisbon (and Jane, though she loathed to admit it) had gotten her hands on him and started to mould him into the confident and assertive Agent he was today.

He sat, still not talking nor looking her in the eye. Lisbon would swear, though she couldn't see clearly as Rigsby's head was ducked, that his cheeks were red. Finally, she somewhat lost her patience.

"So, Miss Lisbon," she decided to start for him. "Where were you around between 11am and 2pm on Wednesday the twelfth of April, 1989?" She cleared her throat as he looked up, startled. "Well, Agent Rigsby, I was at school- Lowell High School." She paused as Rigsby continued to look bewildered before prompting him again, "Carry on, Rigsby."

Finally getting his act together and acting like the Agent she knew, he continued the line of questioning. He started with all the normal questions; Can anyone confirm this? Isn't it true that you could have left the school during your lunch hour and returned before classes without anyone noticing? When did you arrive on the scene?

When his eyes focused on the table again she knew exactly what he was going to say. "Your brother, Michael, had been hospitalised the previous evening. Can you tell me how that happened?"

And she did. She recounted exactly what she knew and what she had found when she had returned home that evening as bluntly as she could manage, elaborating where necessary. And she said it all whilst focussing firmly on Rigsby's ear, refusing to look him in the eyes or look at the mirror behind him where she was sure Cho and Hightower were watching avidly. She hadn't, however, expected to appeal to Rigsby's impulse to protect injured women.

"Was this a one off thing, or a regular occurrence?"

She still wasn't looking at him, missing completely the fire in his eyes which had finally turned towards her. "In the year or so prior to his death, yes, it was regular," she tried to keep the words as blunt as possible. The silence in the room after her statement was only broken by Rigsby's harsh breathing. One of his hands was hidden beneath the table but the other was clutching the file in front of him so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

"And can you think of anybody who would have a motive to kill your father?"

Lisbon answered honestly. "Myself and my brothers, though one was only a child at the time and another was hospitalised on the day of the-"

"You were _all_ children at the time!" She hadn't expected the words that came out of Rigsby's mouth to contain such venom. He sounded positively livid. Lisbon wanted to console her Agent, to tell him that Arthur Lisbon was no longer able to hurt anybody. But she couldn't. At least not until the interrogation was over.

Why couldn't it have been Cho doing this instead?

"Yes," she agreed with Rigsby's statement, for once looking him in the eyes. "We were all children. But I meant that Tommy was only seven years old- he had neither the means nor the opportunity to commit murder." Her next words slipped out before she could stop them, "Besides, we tried to shield him from what our father was capable of. I'm not sure he really understood everything that was happening- so he didn't really have a motive either."

The look of rage on Rigsby's face had turned to one of abject pity and she turned away from his gaze, unable and unwilling to accept that as a child that pity would have been well placed. Noticing her reluctance to continue down that particular path on conversation, Rigsby concluded the interview.

"Anyone else that would have wanted him dead?"

Lisbon had thought about it all weekend. The question had plagued her thoughts when she was awake and when she was asleep. "He may have owed money to a loan shark. I was the one who managed the finances but he always seemed to get money for alcohol somewhere."

Rigsby got up to leave, taking the file with him. He held the door of the interrogation room open for her and allowed her to walk though it ahead of him. As he followed her back to the bullpen she got the distinct impression that this particular interview would never, ever be mentioned again.

* * *

><p>"Four days," Nolan muttered, more to himself than to the inmate sitting across the table from him. "Don't get me wrong," he faced Jane, "I'm delighted that you want to change your plea. But finding evidence that will be admissible in court to prove you not guilty <em>and<em> get you released on a reasonable bail charge is a little steep." The young lawyer started suddenly, realising that the man he was talking to had shot someone just over a week ago. "Not that it's impossible, or anything."

Jane tried to wave a hand, as though wafting away any doubt, but ended up dragging the other hand that it was cuffed to along with it. "Not at all! After all, a trial is really nothing more than an elaborate con." Before Nolan could voice his offence, Jane continued, "All you have to do is convince twelve people that when I shot Red John I was acting for the greater good. And as it happens," he grinned, "I made a fortune telling people what to believe."

Jane reached out and patted the lawyer's hand, holding it lightly, "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be able to win every single case you take for the rest of your career. Trust me."

* * *

><p>Rigsby was trying to get a hold of old bank records and Cho was attempting to contact the Medical Examiner who had performed the autopsy on her father when Lisbon left for her hospital appointment that afternoon. She had loathed leaving the two Agents to do all the legwork on the case by themselves, especially when she had more background knowledge of the case than they did, but it couldn't be helped. She had a hospital appointment to keep and keep it she would. She needed to keep Doctor Schafer sweet until he signed her off so she could go back to work again, officially at least.<p>

She had spent less than five minutes in the waiting area before she was called into a small consultation room. A nurse helped her take off her shirt before carefully checking and redressing the wound on her arm, carefully taking notes on her clipboard all the while. After that, Lisbon was left on her own for a brief while to wait on the Doctor.

She hated the waiting. It was too similar to what they did to criminals in her own line of work. Leaving them to stew, to ponder, to panic. It softened them up, made them more willing to answer the questions posed to them.

Not that Lisbon was comparing herself to criminal or anything.

But she knew that Schafer would ask her if she'd been following the instructions he'd set out for her the week before and while she'd swear blind that she had, _she'd_ know that she was lying, even if he didn't. And that bothered her.

So lost she was in her own musings, she didn't hear the door behind her opening and Schafer entering the room. So when he cleared his throat, Lisbon started so badly that she nearly fell out of the seat that she was perched on. Way to look innocent, she thought sarcastically as she greeted the Doctor.

"I see your team's been given a new case," he began with as he took a seat from her across the desk. It wasn't the conversation opener she'd been expecting. "I saw you on the news."

She nodded, "Yeah, they had to bring me in to answer a few questions about it."

Schafer nodded sympathetically, "I'm sure it was something of a shock to you, Agent Lisbon. For what it's worth, I _am_ sorry about your father."

More uncomfortable with his concerned manner than she'd care to admit, she simply nodded again, thanking him for his condolences, no matter how many years before the death had occurred.

"Anyway," he continued, now seeming a smidgen more cheerful, "one Madeleine Hightower called me this morning," he smiled as Lisbon started at this piece of information, "and apparently she'll have no problems making sure you follow my restrictions on you going back to work."

Lisbon barely managed to suppress the smirk that threatened to make itself known on her lips when she heard that particular remark. So Hightower really had spoken to her doctor and now she was helping Teresa dupe him into believing she was following his medical guidelines to the letter. Either Madeleine had had her own experience with inconvenient medical rules and sympathised with Teresa, or she had predicted the younger woman's stubbornness and decided to not even bother trying to contend with it.

The rest of her visit to the hospital was fairly routine. Apparently her arm was healing up quite nicely and the nurse who had checked it had commented on the neatness of the dressing. In a week, Schafer told her, she would need another brief check up and then, all being well, she would be able to begin light physiotherapy to get back its full range of motion.

Overall, she thought as she left the hospital and hailed a cab, the check up had gone better than she had expected. She only hoped her next appointment went as well.

* * *

><p>Grace looked terrible. She looked as though she hadn't slept at all in the week since the shooting at Hightower's hideout. In fact, Teresa seriously doubted that she had. Her hair was lank and unwashed and when she had opened the door she had been wearing heavy sweatpants and a sweater that was too large for her thin frame. She was shivering despite the sweltering weather outside.<p>

"Sorry about the mess," Grace muttered as she showed Lisbon into the living room.

"Believe me," Lisbon lied flawlessly, "my place is worse." She surreptitiously glanced around the room and found nothing that she felt she should be overly concerned with. Nothing to suggest that Grace, while definitely consumed by her grief, would go over the edge, so to speak. She did notice a dent in the wall, under which she spied a broken picture frame, but she could guess whose picture it had housed and she certainly didn't blame Van Pelt for destroying it. _She_ would have.

"How's your arm?" Grace called from the kitchen as she fetched the both of them a mug of coffee. Lisbon waited until she returned to answer, pleased to see that while Grace may not be sleeping well, her hands were steady as she handed Lisbon the mug, indicating that she had at least gotten some rest.

"Getting better," she opted to answer honestly. Grace didn't need more deception. "Doctor doesn't want me back at work for another week but I was going insane at home. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

That prompted a smile from the younger woman. "Got a new case yet, or are you guys still dealing with..." she trailed off, uncertain how to continue.

"The Jane fiasco?" Lisbon completed for her. Grace nodded, grateful that the words made no reference to Hightower or O'Laughlin. "La Roche is dealing with Jane, though it goes to court on Friday. As for us," Lisbon considered how much to tell her, "we've been given a cold case. Not really our area of expertise," she paraphrased what Hightower had said to her that morning, "but all the other teams are busy." No need to tell her that this particular cold case was personal. Grace had her own demons to deal with and Lisbon didn't want to the young woman to add problems that weren't hers to deal with to the pile.

"It was the situation with Jane that I needed to talk to you about, actually," Lisbon tried to phrase it delicately but Grace flinched all the same. "A lawyer from the prosecution needs to speak to you about what happened."

"When?" Grace had put her mug down and was fiddling with the edges of her sweater.

"Before Friday. When and where is up to you. You want him to come here, he'll come here. If you want to do it at headquarters, that's fine too. But," she paused, leaning over to try and meet Grace's eyes, "I'll be with you the entire time. He doesn't come near you unless I'm there, okay?"

It was only then that she realised she had taken Grace's hand at some point during the conversation and was squeezing it gently. She usually shied away from contact with people- that was Jane's job.

But Jane wasn't here now.

Grace was looking at her, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears, "Thank you," she all but whispered, the words heartfelt. Teresa nodded with what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

"Would it be okay if I did the interview," Lisbon noticed the slight hesitation before 'interview' and expected Grace had swapped it in for 'interrogation' at the last moment, "at the CBI? Tomorrow afternoon? I'd rather just get it out of the way."

"Sure, I'll let O'Donnell know and ring you with a time tonight, okay?"

Somehow the two women managed to while away another hour with completely meaningless small talk that avoided death and murder altogether. Cooking, books and lamenting the loss of the yoga instructor with the nice bum at the gym they both frequented all made an appearance in the conversation however. It was only when she was about to leave that Lisbon made a personal plea to Van Pelt to call her or visit her if she needed anything. Even if it was just to talk.

Grace sat quietly for a moment after Lisbon finished speaking. Then, "Boss? Can I ask you a personal question?"

Damn. "Sure, go ahead."

"Your cross." Grace's hand drifted towards Lisbon's neck where the sliver cross lay, almost, but not quite touching it. "Are you religious?"

A flashback from just over a week before- Lisbon clutching the necklace so hard it left an imprint on her hand as she prayed feverishly for her life and for the life of the one foolish enough to stick by her when she had a bomb strapped to her chest. "Yes," she answered. "Though, sometimes I'm more devout than others."

"Will you pray with me?" Grace's plea was so lost, so broken, that Lisbon's heart nearly broke with her.

"Of course."

Together they recited off the familiar words, and as she did, Lisbon prayed for Jane, for her father, for Grace and finally for herself.

**A.N. **_Well, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I'm finding the trial stuff the most difficult bit to write but once the trial actually begins it should go a bit more smoothly. _

_**~Sweetdeath04**_


	9. Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: The Mentalist or anything related to it does not belong to me.

**A.N. **_So, what about that season finale, eh? I honestly couldn't be happier! Bruno Heller, I would give you a hug if I could. And a cookie, because everyone likes cookies. Okay, so firstly I need to apologise for my lack of knowledge about Geography. I've never been to California. I've also never been to Chicago. So this chapter's going to be a bit of a filler so I can fix my ignorance. I hope you find it up to standard. Enjoy!_

**Chapter Eight**

When Lisbon returned home, the red light of her answering machine was blinking, demanding her attention. Instead of complying with its wishes, she dumped her bag at the front door and dragged herself upstairs. As she slowly changed into sweats which were significantly more comfortable, she mulled over who would be calling her. Most people called her cell or her work number. In fact, the only time her house phone rang it was usually an annoying call centre on the other end. On the rare occasion that it wasn't, it was one of her brothers.

She really didn't want to talk to her brothers. Not about this.

Tommy, she could deal with. His recollections of his father were few and scattered. He would be more worried about the strain it would put _her _under. Once he was sufficiently reassured that she would be able to deal with it, he'd never mention it again. She prayed that there would only be a message from him on her machine.

Michael and James would be more difficult to deal with. She hoped neither of them had heard. As soon as James, the younger of the two had turned eighteen, they had both moved back to Chicago. James, the fireman, would probably be the most distraught about the news, but Michael was a cop, a detective like her. He was aiming for the top and his fury over _finding out_ that his father had been murdered from a fellow _cop_, or worse, the _television_, rather than his sister, would overshadow his rage at the fact that his _father_ had been _murdered._

Too exhausted to cook, she ordered Thai food to be delivered and collapsed on the couch and began to flick though TV channels, desperate to find something to distract her from that bloody red light.

She succumbed less than five minutes later.

"You have one new message." She sighed. Hopefully it was Tommy and the news hadn't reached Chicago yet.

"Hey 'Rease," Tommy's voice, distorted by the phone but easily recognisable, filtered thought the speakers, "I saw you on the news- are you okay? Your arm's in a sling. I mean, _you _know your arm's in a sling and _why _it's in a sling, but,_ I_ didn't know you were hurt and I don't know what happened- Basically, Annabeth saw it and _she's_ worried and... Just, call when you get this, okay?"

Teresa huffed out a sigh followed by a laugh when the message ended. She loved that boy, she really did. With a soft smile that she didn't realise she was wearing, she picked up the phone to call him back.

* * *

><p>Three phone calls and a takeout later, Teresa was beat. Tommy had been wonderful about the whole thing. What could have, and probably should have been a serious and heavy conversation had turned somewhat light and playful, especially after Annabeth- rather, Annie, as she now preferred to be called, had kidnapped the phone from her father. At the end of the conversation she was convinced that both her brother and her niece were keeping well and she was in a much better frame of mind for calling James.<p>

James had been predictably distressed about the whole thing. She knew it was a terrible thing to think, but she had found it easier to speak to him as Agent Lisbon consoling a family member of an anonymous victim rather than as Teresa speaking to her brother. He has asked a lot of questions, some of which she could answer and others she could only tell him that he would find out the answers to as soon as she did.

Michael had asked a lot of questions too but his had been about evidence and procedure rather than question of the _'Why?'_ nature. As she had expected, Michael had been grateful to learn about the whole sorry situation from her rather than a colleague. But when he had learned that her team would be heading up the case the phone went suddenly quiet.

"But you can't." He had stated, after a moment, or several, had passed. "You're family, Teresa. You know as well as I do that a no one can investigate the death of a member of their own family. Unless the law's different down there in Sacramento?"

Of course, the only way to answer _that_ particular question was to tell him that she was on medical leave, a fact that she had managed to hide from James. This, in turn, led to a thorough scolding on the subject of how she wasn't careful enough. Michael, unlike his sister, had somehow managed to survive his entire law enforcement career without getting shot a single time, a fact that Teresa was grateful for but found somewhat aggravating as Michael seemed to think it gave him permission to nag his _big_ sister about taking care of herself.

That was supposed to be _her _job, damn it!

Still, she managed to wrestle a bit of sisterly affection into the end of the conversation when she asked him to check up on James, explaining that he had taken the news a lot worse than the rest of them had. Two of her brothers may have been states away from her, but at least they had each other, she consoled herself.

Shattered, she climbed the stairs and crawled into bed. With the phone calls that she had been dreading out of the way without too much pain, she slept that night better than she had in weeks.

* * *

><p>Kimball Cho didn't have many nervous habits. In fact, one might think he had none at all. He certainly didn't wear his emotions openly. Yet, somehow, the minute his boss climbed into the SUV he was driving, she called him on his edginess with barely a glance.<p>

"I know that look. What did you find, Cho?"

Pulling the vehicle away from the sidewalk, Cho sighed. Seriously? Had she picked up some freaky psychic powers from Jane or something? "How'd you know?"

"You were tapping your hands against the steering wheel and the radio's off. Stop stalling."

Yep, freaky psychic powers. Definitely. "In July 1987 your family left Chicago and came to California. Do you know why?"

Lisbon shrugged awkwardly with one shoulder. "My father had lost his job so there wasn't much of a reason to stay. We had family living here at the time too."

"Duncan and Lisa Ross? Your father's sister and her husband?" Cho confirmed. He slowed to a stop at the traffic lights and turned to see Lisbon nod.

"Yeah, that's them." She turned to look out the window, but Cho wasn't done.

"So you've never heard of Victor Dalton?"

Lisbon's head whipped round so quickly, Cho was surprised that she hadn't given herself whiplash. "Who?"

Cho didn't answer. They were just about to pull into CBI Headquarters and her questions could wait until he had Rigsby there to make all the embarrassing mistakes.

* * *

><p>"Vic Dalton," Rigsby laid out the file in front of her. "Loan Shark. Arthur Lisbon borrowed thirty thousand dollars from him and as far as I can see, he never paid it back."<p>

Lisbon ran her hand through her hair. "Great." Her tone of voice was odd, as though the word encompassed her dismay at her father's activities but also her satisfaction at having a lead in the case. "What do we have on him?"

Rigsby shuffled in his seat, abashed. "That's the thing. We have nothing." Avoiding Lisbon's gaze, just in case it was disappointed or disapproving, he continued, "He died in prison eight years ago. Shanked by another inmate. All the records of his business are filed in evidence but..."

"But they're in Chicago. Got it." Lisbon finished for him. She smiled at him, pleased with what he had uncovered so far, putting him at ease. "I'll drop them a line. One of my brothers works Chicago PD. Maybe we can play the sympathy card."

So for the second time in less than twenty four hours, she called Michael. It had to be a record.

* * *

><p>To the untrained eye, Grace looked in good shape when she arrived at the CBI Headquarters for her interview with O'Donnell. She was dressed nicely with her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and her makeup was impeccable. Only someone such as Lisbon, who had hidden all too many darkened and tired eyes with makeup, would have noticed her fatigue.<p>

Still, it was nice to be back. Wayne had welcomed her back with open arms, his attitude towards her unchanged even after she had broken down in his arms. Cho had unveiled his dimples at her return- a rare treat. Even the interview with O'Donnell , which she had been dreading, had gone well. Lisbon had sat beside her during the interview, never interfering or interrupting the questions she was being asked, which Grace was grateful for. Obviously her boss hadn't lost her confidence in her. But Lisbon had stayed with her, keeping her promise, and that support was all she needed. She suspected, though she'd never ask if her suspicions were correct, that the interview would have been more of an interrogation had the Senior Agent not been present. O'Donnell seemed to have a certain respect for the diminutive woman.

Having someone listen to her view of the disaster with Craig without judging her made her feel better, Grace mused afterwards. She felt lighter. Cleaner, in an odd sort of way.

Or maybe it was just the company, and the sun beaming down on her, as she sat outside the CBI in the small cafe, that was improving her mood. Her flat had been so dark and quiet since Charlie had left.

Hightower had dragged Grace and Lisbon outside for a coffee break. Actually, Madeleine had enlisted Grace's assistance in getting Lisbon to take a break and step back from whatever their new case was. According to Hightower, Lisbon was still supposed to be on medical leave yet she hadn't missed a day of work since she'd been released from the hospital.

And so, the three women sat, basking in the glow of the sun, occasionally talking about inconsequential matters but mostly they sat in silence. In all honestly, the only thing all three had in common was their work and their mutual admiration of the cute Latino fellow that was tending the coffee cart.

"Dare I ask how the case is going?" Madeleine asked, eventually bringing the conversation onto the former of the two topics.

Lisbon sat up a little straighter at that. "We-" she was cut off by a loud cough and a pointed look from Hightower. "Cho and Rigsby," she amended, "have found a lead back to a loan shark back in Chicago. The guy's deceased, but his files are still in evidence. We're waiting for Chicago PD to send us a copy."

Grace listened in, fascinated, as Hightower asked, "You think it was him?"

Lisbon shook her head. "No. I mean, it's certainly possible. But I don't think Vic Dalton would have chased him all the way to San Francisco to collect thirty grand. Plus, my father died two years after we left Chicago. Why'd he have waited so long to kill him?"

"_What!"_

Both women turned to stare at Grace's outburst. Swapping looks with Lisbon, Hightower leaned back in her chair. Van Pelt was on Teresa's team- _she _could field this one.

"A detective from SFPD found evidence that my father may have been murdered, instead of having killed himself." Lisbon stated bluntly. "Since we're the only team not on a case right now, we-" she stopped herself without Hightower's intervention, "Cho and Rigsby, caught it. Obviously if another case comes up, it will take precedence and the guys will have to put this on the backburner."

Van Pelt was stunned. How had she not noticed that something this big had happened? Had she been so wrapped up in her own problems (and, to be fair, she had some pretty big problems) that she hadn't noticed something was off? Or had she just attributed it to Jane being in prison? She was at a loss what to say. All she managed was a quiet, "I'm so sorry. The guys didn't say anything."

Teresa shrugged. "It's fine. It's just weird, that's all. I'd come to terms with him committing suicide a long time ago. It's strange to think that's not what really happened."

And as the conversation turned onto a different vein, Teresa continued to think. What would she do when she eventually caught up with her father's killer? The righteous anger had been fleeting and she had come to terms with her father's death many years ago. Would the enormity of the truth hit her all at once, or would it slowly seep into her life, becoming an obsession, like Red John had been with Jane?

No, she decided. She was an officer of the law. She would push aside her own personal feelings until it was all over if she had to. She'd had plenty of practice doing that in the past and if it was necessary she would do so again.

**A.N.**_ Okay, filler chapter over. Next is the pre-trial! Let me know what you think!_

_**~Sweetdeath04**_


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